U KNO U’VE GOT POWERFL ALUMS ON UR SIDE W/BILLINGS. U JUST NEED 2 FIND RIGHT ONE. HINT: SHE’S FILED UNDER G.
My throat went dry. I glanced around the classroom, but everyone in sight was focused on the teacher, their pens scratching over their notebooks. No one had a phone out—not Missy, not Lorna, not Diana Waters, not Sawyer or Marc Alberro. Of course, not every student at Easton was in this classroom, but most of them were currently in class somewhere. And technically, texting in class was verboten. But anyone could have sent this message and then stashed their phone away before I even had a chance to pull my cell out of my pocket.
My fingers trembling, I texted back.
WHO R U?
The message came up that it was sending. And sending. And sending. Then the screen lit up with the words: MSG FAILED.
Pressing my teeth together in frustration, I tried again.
WHO R U?
MSG FAILED.
I sat back hard in my chair and turned my phone off, mentally letting out a string of curses that, if spoken aloud, would have landed me in detention for a week.
Then, out in the hallway, I heard a giggle. I glanced up at the open door just as someone darted past. A blond someone in a pink dress. My heart completely seized and I sat up straight, but no one else in the room seemed to have noticed. It was all I could do to keep myself from sprinting across the room and checking the hall.
I glanced around the desks again, and my eyes met Missy’s. She was glaring at me from across two rows of desks, her mouth set in an angry red line.
“Reed,” Astrid whispered from behind me. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah. I’m fine,” I whispered back hoarsely, tearing my gaze away from Missy’s to face forward again.
My hands trembled beneath my desk, holding tight to my phone. I felt vulnerable and small, as if at any moment someone or something was about to attack. But the hallway was silent now, and the construction site was still, nothing moving other than the flag atop the crane, flapping in the breeze.
MT
“You’ve been stalked more this year than half the starlets in Hollywood combined. I’m not sure whether to be proud, jealous, or just seriously disturbed.”
Ivy Slade handed my phone back to me after reading my mystery text and arched one perfectly plucked eyebrow. She stood in the center of my single dorm room in Pemberly Hall with her slim arms crossed over her chest. Her dark hair hung loose over the shoulders of her white cardigan, and she looked as if she’d been spray-painted into her dark-wash skinny jeans.
“Believe me, it’s not something I’m proud of,” I told her, tossing my phone onto my bed. I glanced out the window toward the construction site, checking for dark-jacketed creepers or random girls with blond hair. “So what do I do now?”
“How much time do you have before Josh comes to pick you up?” she asked, sliding past me to sit at my desk. She opened my laptop and the screen instantly filled with at least ten open documents—outlines of my plans for the cocktail party and brunch; contact numbers for caterers, car services, florists, and hotels; guest lists; meal preferences; and arrival times. Just looking it was giving me a migraine.
“About ten minutes,” I replied, checking my watch. Josh had been busy most of the day, but we’d had a standing predinner coffee date for weeks now. So standard that all my friends knew I basically planned my day around it. It was the best and most chill part of my day. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking we start by checking to see if this stalker’s info is any good,” Ivy said, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she looked back at me. I was already staring out the window again. “Hello? Can I have your attention, please?”
With a sigh I yanked the curtain over the window and then sat down on the edge of my bed. “Can we not call it a stalker? Just hearing the word gives me the heebs.”
Ivy’s red lips twisted into a smirk. “Fine. Mystery texter it is. MT for short.”
I smiled as Ivy opened the most valuable folder on my computer—the one containing all the information there was to know about every last Billings alum and all the current Billings Girls as well. There were several files, each with the information organized in different ways—by class, by initiation date, by last name. Ivy opened the alphabetical file and went right for the G’s.
“So. What are we looking for?” Ivy asked.
“I have no idea.” I wiped my sweaty palms on my thighs and scooted forward a bit. “Someone in county government? Or state?”
Ivy clicked on the first G name, Lacey Galvin, but apparently Lacey was a world-class yachtswoman living in Florida. She closed the file and opened the next.
“Or maybe someone in construction?” she said. “Green living?”
The next woman owned five hotels in France. The next was listed as a life coach in Los Angeles. There was an Olympic equestrian, a CEO of a gourmet food corporation, and several philanthropists, but no one working on environmental causes. By the time we got to the last woman in the G section, Cori Gulberg, I was starting to think that this MT person was either out of their minds, or so bored they were making stuff up for fun.
“Here’s something,” Ivy said, snagging my attention. “Cori Gulberg is president of Glace Cosmetics.”